


Brave Sprout

by ToEdenandBackAgain



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: But can be read as friendship, Plants, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 20:13:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19363465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToEdenandBackAgain/pseuds/ToEdenandBackAgain
Summary: Inspired by artwork on Tumblr: Aziraphale likes being kind to Crowley's plants.





	Brave Sprout

In the aftermath of the failed Apocalypse, Crowley and Aziraphale found themselves somewhat at a loss with what to do. Even with 6000 years behind them, and now the promise of just as many more ahead, the last eleven years – the last six days before the Apocalypse, even – seemed a blur. The months had passed without any intervention from their respective former sides, allowing the two of them to settle back into the lives they had used to lead. With, however, one notable difference.

 

Each other.

 

Their infrequent, clandestine meetings became weekly lunches and morning duck feedings. Crowley sauntered around the fully restored bookshop helping* Aziraphale organize his new collection of works. It felt not altogether unwelcome to finally be able to spend time in the vicinity of one another without a half dozen miracles between them to make sure neither would be in trouble with their respective head offices. Their lunches slowly became drinks at the bookshop, which then bled into late night dinners and even more bottles of wine. On one notable occasion, Crowley had even woken up the next morning, face mashed into the couch cushions with a tartan throw blanket draped haphazardly over his shoulders.

 

In short, it felt a little as though they had spent more time together in the last several weeks than they had in the last 6000 years.

 

And it felt _good._

 

Crowley was, truth be told, enjoying the company. On the days when he didn’t saunter into the bookshop and ‘tempt’* Aziraphale into spending time with him, there’s an ache in his chest that he can never quite nudge out of the way.

 

But after throwing his pride to the wind by all but begging the angel go off with him to Alpha Centurai. Crowley wasn’t much in the place to be making any rash decisions just yet.

 

All of this in mind; this is how Crowley finds himself wandering aimlessly in Soho on a Saturday morning, knowing it to be too early for lunch, and therefore too early to have an excuse to make his way to the bookshop. Instead, he saunters his way down the street to a quiet nursery that had sprung up some time between the Notpocalypse and this very morning. He spent over an hour sauntering through the small plant nursery, inspecting all of the saplings and propagation they were selling with a critical eye, hissing threats at some of them to brighten them up for potential buyers. It’s getting well into acceptable lunch time hours when he spots a small pot by the window; a lush, green plant stretching it’s leaves out towards the sun. Not a spot, not a dust particle. Not even a slightly curled leaf. The woman behind the counter rings him up, making idle chit chat as she hands him a “How to care for your Peace Lily” pamphlet. Crowley rolls his eyes. Aziraphale will _love_ that this was the one that caught his eye.

 

A _Peace lily_ of all things.

 

Regardless, he carries it gently in his hands as he shoves open the door to the bookshop and calls out into the cramped mess.

 

“Tempt you to lunch, Angel?”

 

The plant is set down on the counter as Crowley peers around the stacks, finding Aziraphale with his nose almost plastered between the pages of an old book. Adam’s attempt at reinstating the bookshop had come with a lot of surprises, notably a large selection of first editions that the angel had previously only been able to dream of. The wine cellar, to the dismay of them both, hadn’t been restored to its former glory. Not that it has much stopped them from continuing to indulge in the subpar wine well into excess. Aziraphale looks up from the book, gloved hands still stroking the pages with absent delight.

 

“Might I just have a moment, my dear? I found this wedged in behind the Jeffrey Archer’s and it’s a _first edition-”_

 

Crowley is already sprawled on one of the plush armchairs, knowing it will be at least another hour before Aziraphale can pry himself away from the books. He isn’t sure when he falls asleep; the rustle of papers under Aziraphale’s fingers is a soothing backtrack to the bustle of Soho outside the windows and though he would never admit it, he is still trying to recover from the sheer exhaustion of holding the Bentley together and stopping time under threat of Aziraphale never speaking to him again. It’s the shuffle of feet and a soft gasp that stirs him, though he doesn’t move until he hears Aziraphale speak, in a tone usually reserved for particularly decadent dishes at the Ritz and french crepes.

 

“My, you are _beautiful,_ ”

 

Crowley cracks open one eye, a snarky reply already on the tip of his tongue when he realizes Aziraphale isn’t talking to him.*

 

Instead, he has the tiny potted plant cradled in his hand, turning it this way and that, letting it catch the light as he strokes the leaves with soft fingers.

 

“A _stunning_ you thing, aren’t you?” he whispers.

 

Crowley throws himself out of the chair so fast that it topples over behind him.

 

“NO! Nooooooo, angel, don’t talk to it like _that!”_

 

Aziraphale clutches the plant to his chest and sighs.

 

“Crowley, this is such a charming plant. I really don’t see why you insist on terrifying them. I’m not much of a gardener, I must admit I mostly miracled my way through that time of our lives but _surely_ you don’t need to scream at them. And this one’s _a lovely thing, aren’t you dear?”_

 

“Noooooo!” Crowley moans, making a grab for it and almost tripping over a stack of books that he was sure hadn’t been there moments ago*. Aziraphale lifts the plant up into the air, out of Crowley’s reach.   


“A beautiful plant. A perfect specimen. That’s right, dear, you are _perfection_ ,”

 

“Angel, stop being _nicssssssssse_ to it!”

 

Aziraphale is smirking now, the plant still held aloft and out of Crowley’s scrabbling hands.

 

“The bravest little plant, going into your apartment where you torment them so. A perfect sprout. The _best of them_ ,”

 

Crowley hisses and lunges for the pot, catching only the air as Aziraphale snatches it away to press a gentle, soft kiss to the – now definitely thicker and lusher – leaves. He sets it on the coffee table and smooths his jacket, not even trying to disguise the self satisfied smile plastered on his face.

 

“You mentioned lunch, my dear? I’m famished. Don’t worry, my sweet little plant. We’ll return soon and you can go to your charming new home.”

 

Crowley accepts defeat- at least for now. He waits until Aziraphale has walked out of the bookstore before he leans into the plant, sunglasses slipping low on his nose as he glares at it.

 

“Rotten thing,” he hisses before he turns on his heel and lets the door slam behind him.

 

The plant rustles. If anyone had been around to see it, they may have thought it was giggling.

 

It’s much later when they return, yet another lunch gone on until the sun was beginning to sink into the horizon. The plant is pressed into hCrowley’s hands by Aziraphale, who smiles all the while as though Crowley can’t _feel_ the small miracle he worked on it. He doesn’t know what the angel has done to it, on the passenger seat of the Bentley, it looks innocent enough. Still lush and green, already a few inches taller from Aziraphales... praises. He already knows he can’t put it with the other plants, he knows how they gossip and his reputation would be ruined. It was bad enough when Aziraphale had, in earshot of one of Crowley’s best Sansivieria’s, that the ‘bad’ plants don’t end up in the garbage disposal; but rather the footpath outside the flat where they are swept away by someone who has a rather sudden urge for a plant. He’d had to relocate it to the dining room where it couldn’t natter away about Crowley being _soft._

 

It isn’t until he is negotiating it from it’s nursery pot into one that better suits the aesthetic of his flat that he notices the soft bud of a flower that certainly hadn’t been there when he purchased it. Nestled in amongst the foliage and out of sight. Crowley reaches out with a delicate touch, stroking the impossibly soft petals as they respond eagerly to the caress and bloom into bright, white flowers.

 

They remind him a little of Aziraphale’s wings, now that he looks at them.

 

“Now, don’t go getting any ideas-” he begins to threaten, a horrified feeling taking over when the bloom withers and dies almost immediately.

 

“Wait. Wait wait. Ah- I’m... well, I’m not _sorry_ but I...”

 

Aziraphale was going to pay for turning this plant against him.

 

“I quite liked that flower,” he said softly through the grit of his teeth, “Maybe you could, I dunno, show me another?”

 

As if by magic – more like angelic miracle – Crowley thinks darkly, another bud blooms easily, just as bright and verdant as the first. Crowley glares at it.

 

He was going to have to be _kind_ to this one, wasn’t he?

 

That’s how the peace lily ends up on his bedside table, now sporting five flowers that are stretching towards the ceiling. Crowley has struggled to come up with things to say to it, wanting to see more of the beautiful flowers. He watches it from his bed, mesmerized by the way the moonlight catches and shines through the petals.

 

“Maybe...” he begins slowly, seeing the plant tremble in it’s pot as he speaks, “Aziraphale was right. Just about you though. You might be... _fine_.”

 

The plant responds by opening another bloom.

 

* * *

 

*He wasn’t really helping. He spent most of the time laying indecently on the couch and listening to Aziraphale bang around with his new books.

 

*It had become a bit of a joke between them to throw that word around, as though they both were painfully aware that neither of them needed any tempting to do anything when the other was concerned

 

*Not that he would ever _expect_ Aziraphale to speak to him that way, but there wasn’t anyone else in the shop and Crowley _had_ been growing his hair out since the apocalypse and the angel was yet to comment on it

 

*It hadn’t been. Aziraphale has been embracing his newfound freedom and partaking in what the youth these days refer to as ‘pranks’.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by an art piece by dotstronaut on Tumblr.  
> https://dotstronaut.tumblr.com/post/185755390508/hey-you-guys-know-that-one-text-post-the-one-with
> 
> Come find me there and cry about GO at toeedenandbackagain.


End file.
